


Before your eyes

by Endemic



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: F/M, Lutecest, M/M, Multi, OT3, Spoilers, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endemic/pseuds/Endemic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The experiment was a success, but her brother doesn't seem to be willing to let it go just yet.  [Rosalind/Booker/Robert]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Constant

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to post this really bad, so no beta for the moment. Forgive me if it's riddled with mistakes. 
> 
> This fic will be mostly cute domestic fluff. The next few updates will be quick. I promise.

It was finally over and they stood under a tree in a park that was and was not where they had frequented growing up (alone, though it had never really felt that way).

“We're still alive.”

“Theoretically, yes.”

“Hm.”

“You seem surprised, brother.”

“Well I wasn't entirely sure our existence wouldn't be affected by deleting Comstock from the continuity.”

“I was sure.”

“And why's that? It's not as if we could confirm it until now.”

“Because the universe—time, whatever we must call it— _wants_ us to be together. That much is clear.”

Looking at Rosalind was often like peering into a mirror, but when she said things like that, Robert always felt like he was seeing her for the first time—not as an all-but-invisible extension of himself, but as another being, breathing and thinking all on her own.

Rosalind wrinkled her nose, taking a deep breath that Robert's body mimicked on its own accord.

“Forgive me, that sounded too much like Comstock's faith and fate trite. The reason we are together now is a result of my—our—efforts alone.”

“You give yourself too much credit, dear sister. I think we mostly owe our current state to Comstock and his order to sabotage the contraption.” 

Rosalind crossed her arms, another gesture that Robert's body threatened to mimic. More often than not, whatever small movement Rosalind made seemed so _right_ to him that it was difficult not to copy it himself. He didn't want to be an automation of her whim however, so instead he laced his fingers behind his back where they would behave themselves. 

“You must admit, we do owe him a great debt,” Robert said when his sister's silence stretched too far. “It's worked out quite well, being indefinitely dislodged from time and space with none of those pesky continuity rules seeming to apply to us.”

“Please. I would have gotten us there eventually. There is nothing I would not have done to ensure we stay together forever. That is a constant.”

“Hm.”

“It never mattered which way the coin flipped, it always landed on heads.”

Robert wanted to argue because he hated that constants could be as insignificant as a coin flip, or as contrived as a person's desire to find themselves in another lifetime—but he didn't argue, because she _had_ helped him reunite the father and daughter. Variables in their respective lives had caused her to be the kind of person who didn't think that the best idea. But still, she had helped him.

“It begs a few questions about your ultimatum,” she said.

“I would say that the question is why _you_ accepted the ultimatum if you believed our desire to stay together was a constant. Thus leading to the conclusion that I would not--”

“Have followed through with parting ways. Yes, well, you must have known I would not allow us to part because you wished to stay together just as much as I.”

“Perhaps I did offer the ultimatum knowing you couldn't bear not to accept it.” Robert smiled, causing Rosalind's already perpetual frown to deepen. Robert wondered if she was not as drawn as he was to return gestures like smiles or small shifts.

“So you doubted this constant when you agreed to fix what we had done—no, that's not like you. You must have known I would not part from you.” Robert's smile widened further. "Why, dear sister, did you go along with the whole Booker DeWitt ordeal simply to please me?”

“That, I will never tell.”

“My, my. Not even for research purposes?”

“Not even for research.”


	2. Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I think that's the largest response for a fanfic I've ever received in such a short amount of time. I'm glad so many people love the Lutece twins.
> 
> This is another r/r chapter. Next one will get around to Booker.
> 
> I'm sorry these are so short. I usually write really long chapters, but I think that hinders me from continuing fics so I'm trying to just go with the flow on this one. Plus I haven't been this excited for a pairing/characters in a long time!

Rosalind Lutece had always been so bent on meeting the girl who was and was not herself, that when the time finally came, she was surprised to find it was a boy.

Well, more accurately, it was a man. A man who was so undeniably _her_ that she couldn't even bring herself to be bitter about her own lack of foresight on the matter of gender. _Of course gender would be a variable._ She couldn't fathom why it had not crossed her mind before. 

She had always expected to see her other self perhaps with a different cut of hair or an unsavory profession. But the man was her in every way—from thought process to intelligence to sense of style. 

The only differences were those in physical development caused by the single variance in chromosome. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Variables in upbringing and life seemed to have left her brother with a stronger sense of moral responsibility than she. (Though sometimes she wondered if it was her extended time with Comstock that had deteriorated hers.)

Still, she couldn't have anticipated her instant attachment to Robert that extended well beyond scientific curiosity. 

She loved him. From the instant she first confirmed his existence and they exchanged dots and dashes through the same atom.

Rosalind had never experienced such emotional dependency towards anything in her life. She knew that if she lost contact with Robert she might as well die right there, because she would never again meet anyone so perfectly her equal in every way.

Variables tended to muck things up, and Rosalind was all too aware of how rare it was that Robert had not ended up a completely different man, and she knew very well that in other worlds, he had.

So when her brother presented her with an ultimatum, she took it. Rosalind wanted to believe that being united perpetually with the man who was and was not herself was something unavoidable—a constant. Whether it was a constant before the contraption was tampered with, they may never know for certain. 

The possibility that their bond was not a constant and they were indeed capable of parting ways indefinitely, frightened her more than she would like to admit. So after one hundred twenty-three Booker DeWitts, one hundred twenty-three coin flips, they had done it, fixed the cycle they had created.

It was one hundred twenty-three sequences in which Rosalind grew to suspect that Robert was not simply determined to fix things because of guilt, but that he also longed to record the data that each attempt provided.

The coin never did land on tails.

And almost as soon as they succeeded in preventing Comstock from ruining the lives of too-many, it became clear that Robert had no intentions of letting their little experiment end.

“He called her Elizabeth.”

“Hm?” So that was where her other had run off to—spying on their specimen.

“Booker DeWitt mistakenly called his daughter, Anna, Elizabeth.”

“He called her Anna Elizabeth?”

Rosalind didn't think she had ever seen a glare so lethal in her life. She suppressed a smirk.

“No. He called his daughter, _ANNA_ , by the name of Elizabeth.”

“There's no need to shout. I see what you mean.”

“Thank you.”

“Could be nothing,” she said, though she knew the likelihood of a coincidence on that scale was infinitesimal.

“Could be everything,” Robert corrected.

“Is this data so crucial that you would deny yourself worlds of new content to study?”

“We have worlds of time to study all of those worlds.”

“Yes, so why waste a drop more on Booker DeWitt?”

“You hate him,” Robert said.

Of course she hated him and of course Robert knew.

“You hate him because after all Zachary Comstock did to wrong you, he is still the reason we are together now.”

“I would say that I am responsible for more than a fair share of why we are here now. But yes, I suppose I do resent him for sharing any blame at all.”

“This is a place where you and I differ. You see, where you are begrudging, I am grateful. He gave me an eternity with you.” Robert stood there an impersonal distance away, looking at her with the same noncommittal expression that she was so used to seeing on herself. “I should like to make sure that at least one Booker DeWitt lives a happy life with his daughter.”

When he put it like that, Rosalind knew that once again she couldn't deny him her help in the matter. Though, she was beginning to suspect that there wasn't a time or a place where she could ever deny Robert anything he asked.


	3. Deal

“We should set him loose.”

“But everything is going so well.”

“Precisely—we are upsetting the natural course of things.”

Booker DeWitt had entered the communal kitchen ten minutes ago, but the nearly identical innkeepers still hadn't acknowledged him past standing across the room and glancing at him as if he were trapped behind glass.

“I can hear you, you know,” Booker said finally, to which the twins turned and stared at him in wordless synchronization. Booker scoffed, unsure of whether their odd looks were a result of realizing he had been listening, or the fact that he was drinking their orange juice straight out of the pitcher with a squirming baby over his shoulder.

As disconnected from reality as the Lutece's conversations always seemed to him, Booker knew the subject of this one. 

A little over a month ago Rosalind and Robert Lutece had shown up just as his world was ending—rent was over past due and his landlord was kicking him out—baby and all. He'd done the right thing and quit the alcohol as soon as his wife got pregnant, but turning one's life around didn't erase mistakes, or debts. After his wife's death all he had left was guilt and a baby. A baby whose future he had drank and gambled away before she had even sparked into existence. 

When the Luteces had so casually offered him (in his very public moment of hysteria, screaming obscenities as his landlord threw his belongings onto the pavement) room and board at their inn in exchange for basic custodial duties on his part, Booker had felt like he was making a deal with the devil despite being by no means a religious man. 

But they had looked so clean and prim with their immaculate dress, strolling with linked arms under a parasol—as if they always took walks through the worst part of New York looking like something from a photograph. And Booker had stood there, grubby and unwashed and nothing like Rosalind and Robert Lutece. The only thing he could manage to say was, 

_“What's the catch?”_

_The twins replied in unison, “we don't know how to run an inn, so you'll have to figure it out for yourself.”_

_Booker had been through enough in his nineteen years to know a scam when he saw one, so he pushed past them with a, “very funny.”_

_“If you don't turn a profit in a month, we'll kill you,”Rosalind called after him._

_“Just kidding,” Robert said as they trailed behind Booker._

_“Is that what you wanted to hear?” Rosalind asked._

_“Why,” Booker spun around to point a finger at them with his hand that wasn't supporting an oddly calm Anna, “would two people open an inn if they don't know shit about running one--”_

_Robert held up a hand to signal Booker to stop talking because he'd like to answer the question, but Booker plowed on, voice raising over Robert's silent objection._

_“And why would you ask a man who you don't know—who probably looks to you folk like a guy who'd like to rob you blind—to run it?”_

_“Because of her,” the man said easily, gesturing at the child in Booker's arms._

_“And because of those,” the woman finished, nodding towards the service medals strewn among Booker's measly personal belongings scattered along the pavement._

_At that, Booker was silent._

_“War leaves people broken, traumatic as it is. It leaves them in poverty, trying to rid themselves of unsavory memories with drink,” Rosalind said. “It's a pity.”_

_“Look, I ain't broken and I ain't looking for any charity.”_

_Robert raised his eyebrows. “That may be so, but we are looking for someone to do a lot of work,”_

_“For very little,” Rosalind said, stepping forward._

_“We are physicists, you see,”_

_“And science seldom funds itself,” Rosalind said._

Taking advantage of someone's misfortune was something Booker found believable—so he was sold, albeit reluctantly. 

And there he was, a month later, sitting in their shared kitchen and listening to them talk about how guilty they felt for helping him because it _altered his natural course,_ whatever that meant.

“Hey you two, I'm real sorry you have to live with the guilt that you _didn't_ leave me and my daughter to die on the street, but will you please shut the hell up?”

Robert smiled slightly, shooting Rosalind a look that said she had just lost an argument.

“You wouldn't have died,” Rosalind muttered, which rewarded her a discreet prod from her brother's elbow.

Booker had known the Luteces were crazy from the first time he'd heard an explosion from their lab in the basement, but sometimes he wished that just once they would let him forget just how insane they were.


	4. Ink and Pillows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep having to remind myself that it's actually canon that the Luteces DIDN'T have a romantic relationship during the game, because it's so hard to believe that they weren't romantically involved.

Robert sat back and allowed Rosalind to do all the work building the hardware for the teleportation field they were working on. 

At some point they had realized that they had jumped straight to travel between worlds (due to Rosalind's lifelong desire to meet him, no doubt), and completely skipped over instantaneous travel over great distance within the _same_ world. 

“I should very much like to meet whomever decided upon the laws of the universe,” Rosalind said, having a particularity hard time with a wrench. It took her entire body weight just to get the rather large bolt to budge. 

Poor thing.

Robert yawned. “No one _decided_ how things are—they just _are_. It's the same in every world we've been in.” The laws of physics were always the same no matter what era they stumbled upon. It made their job easier, in his opinion.

Rosalind let the wrench clatter to the ground. “Well it appears I've no one to punch in the face then.”

His sister was angry, he didn't blame her—it was ridiculous that they'd had an easier time traversing worlds than they were having traveling three feet within the same world. Something about the added factor of distance changed the difficulty of their task. Robert rubbed his temples. 

“I told you that we should have made him stay in the inn.”

Rosalind hardly ever grew irritated to the point of throwing tools, but they hardly slept as it was, and the addition of a crying baby across the hall, waking at least once a night to feed, was taking a toll on both of them.

“I need him to be close, so I can study him,” Robert reminded her with his last bit of patience. 

“And the inn next door wasn't sufficient?”

The inn had just been a cover to convince DeWitt to accept their generosity. They knew him too well from their trails and errors with the Comstock ordeal that Booker DeWitt had too strong a pride and sense of duty to accept hand outs, even when they were owed to him. 

Rosalind had suggested he be their maid, but that had not turned out well, so they went back and tried again. Booker found the inn story more satisfactory. 

The inn and the house next to it were pretty things they had to go back a year prior and commission, though they only had to wait as long as it took to travel ahead to see them fully built—which was practically no time at all. 

Both houses, theirs and the one meant to serve as an inn, were equipped with the latest plumbing of the time, something that most buildings in that year lacked. They were dressed with beautiful gardens that neither he nor his sister had any intention of maintaining. 

Rosalind sighed. “Sometimes I feel as though the child remembers what turmoil we've caused her and is trying to spite us.”

“We'd.”

“Hm?”

“We'd. What turmoil we _had_ caused her. Not we've—because _we have_ isn't exactly correct anymore.”

“Dammit Robert, I'm a physicist not a grammar professor,” Rosalind growled. “Why can't we just be done with it and find a world where the grammar rules involving infinite realities has already been invented?”

“If such a reality exists, it was still likely us who determined those rules,” Robert mused, much to his own horror.

“Joy,” Rosalind said. 

“It's bad for both of us, always being so exhausted. Perhaps if I made tea--”

“No, I'll do it,” she said, brushing her skirt off as she stood. “You never remember to remove the pot before the whistling wakes the child.”

“Hm.” 

He couldn't argue with that, but every step she took up the stairs hit him with guilt. He should accompany her at least, instead of leaving her to prepare their tea in a dark kitchen alone in the middle of the night. 

His body didn't seem to want to move, however, and before he knew it he was waking up in a puddle of drool on the cold surface of his lab table. 

How long had he been asleep? There was no Rosalind, no tea, just a partially ruined book of notes, ink smudged with his saliva. 

Perplexed, Robert climbed the steps, listening hard for any oddity, and as he stepped into the hall, the flickering of the lamp light from the kitchen reached him before the muffled crying. It wasn't Anna.

“I know—believe me, I do. But no matter how hard I try, and I do try, I just can't convince myself to stop _feeling_ like it's my fault.”

That was definitely DeWitt, Robert noted as he stopped just before the kitchen doorway.

“There, there,” Rosalind said, and for one absurd moment Robert thought she might be holding DeWitt, patting his back in attempt to quell the sobs. But of course when Robert ventured a quick glance into the room, Rosalind was seated across from DeWitt at the table, fingers wrapped around a teacup. 

“I realize you must think a woman cannot relate, but if an action of mine—however insignificant or well-meaning, were to cause Robert harm, I would never forgive myself.” 

It was nothing Robert didn't know or feel mutually, but he couldn’t help thinking himself an intruder who wasn't meant to hear those words. 

“No offense,” DeWitt said so harshly that Robert felt an overwhelming urge to put himself between the man and Rosalind, “but it's not the same. He's your brother.”

The way DeWitt said _brother_ almost made Robert wish they had left the man to live the miserable life of poverty he would have had without them. He said it like it meant nothing. 

_Brother_ , just a _brother_ —why was that word always so limiting?

Oh how Robert hated words sometimes. Rosalind was right—their lives would be vastly improved by the invention of words for how they worked and what they'd done and who they were to each other. If Booker DeWitt knew, if anyone knew, they could never doubt he and Rosalind's significance to each other, their bond. They called themselves siblings because that was the closest thing there was to what they were, but it was so much more than that. Something entirely new and unique to them alone.

As much as he wanted to protect his sister, he couldn't blame DeWitt for not understanding when what they called themselves was so lacking.

“I apologize that the comparison offended you,” Rosalind said with more patience than Robert expected. “The truth is, I have no other way to relate. I do not have a wife at risk of dying in childbirth. I do however, have a brother who I love more than anything. I have never loved anyone as much as I do Robert. That is the closest I have to understanding you.”

Booker DeWitt snorted in a way that told Robert that Rosalind had succeeded in making him forget his grievances, if only for a moment. 

“I feel sorry for your lovers, no wonder you're not married at your age.”

Robert cringed on Rosalind's behalf.

“I've never had a lover,” Rosalind said, her nonplussed tone surprising Robert almost as much as her words. 

He had wondered, expected—assumed as much—but he'd never had the courage to ask her directly. 

And there was his answer, given to Booker DeWitt.

He felt a little robbed. 

“Why don't I find that surprising,” DeWitt said, laughing. “Hey, maybe you should help out with Anna more often, so that prudishness will rub off.”

“You don't want your daughter to be happily married someday?” 

“I'm just afraid she'll be one of those girls who dates men like their fathers.”

“Fair concern.”

The muffled wail of a hungry baby echoed down from the second floor, immediately followed by the scraping of chair legs as someone stood from the table. 

“Speak of the devil,” Booker said, taking a few steps towards the door frame. 

Robert stood concealed in the hall, not quite sure what to do with himself.

“Thanks for,” DeWitt lingered, trying to find the right words.

_Helping?_

_Comforting?_

_Listening?_

“The tea,” DeWitt said finally, discomfort audible. 

“You are quite welcome,” Rosalind said.

“Oh, and sorry for being an ass about your brother. I know you two are close.”

For a moment Robert thought the conversation was over, but after a long pause that ended when Booker tried to walk away again, Rosalind blurted, “ _How?_ How do you know?”

“What?” DeWitt sounded disgruntled. “You mean apart from the fact that you live together, finish each others sentences and hardly leave each other's side?” He snorted. “This house only has two bedrooms—and you gave me one of them.”

Robert gaped. Had they really been so forgetful that they failed to make it at least appear as if they didn't sleep in the same room, let alone bed? Sharing a bed was just something they'd always done, ever since he'd crossed to Rosalind's time and she had forgotten to accommodate him with a separate bed beforehand. 

It had worked out that they both preferred to wake up with the other near. Now that Booker DeWitt knew, the detail felt personal in a way Robert had never thought about before. To him it was just the way things _should be_ between two people who are the same person.

Rosalind must have looked just as flabbergasted because DeWitt said, “hey, don't worry—I get it. The whole special bond between twins because they shared a womb thing.”

And with that, Booker DeWitt sprinted out of the kitchen past Robert, not without shooting him an odd look and an eye roll before dashing up the stairs to tend to Anna. 

“And how long have you been here, brother?” Rosalind asked, stepping through the doorway.

“Not long enough to know why Booker DeWitt was seeking comfort from you.” 

“I stumbled upon him while coming to make your tea,” she said. “It escalated quite quickly from there.” 

“Oh?”

“He couldn't sleep, plagued by thoughts of his late wife.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Yes. He was feeling quite sorry for himself, guilt ridden that his wife's death haunted him more than his actions at war—presumably he was referring to wounded knee, though he did not specify.” 

“Hm. And you did tell him it was only natural that he felt worse about the death of his wife?”

“Of course,” she said. “You'll also be pleased to hear that I suspect he's misplacing guilt about giving up Anna—events he does not remember—and transferring them to his wife's death.”

Robert frowned. “You don't think it possible for him to feel that much guilt over impregnating a woman who died giving birth?”

“Not enough to weep like a child, over a year later, in front of _me_ of all people.”

“Your disposition _is_ rather stern and unwelcoming,” Robert said.

“You think so?” Rosalind brought her fingers to her chin in thought. “You always struck me as open and friendly. Odd that we differ so.”

“Pity if that's true. I'm sure you're the one with the bigger heart.”

“Physically improbable, given that you're male and I'm female—hold still.” Rosalind reached out, steadying his face with one hand and wetting the thumb of her other with her mouth.

“You have ink on your face,” she said, scrubbing at his cheek none too gently with her slick thumb. 

“I think I'd rather skip the tea and attempt sleep.”

“I was beginning to think you preferred ink and paper to pillows,” Rosalind said, patting Robert's face to signal she was done scrubbing it clean. 

“Done grooming me, are you?” he asked, following his... _not-sister_ , up the stairs.

“For now,” she said, waving to Booker as they passed his open door. DeWitt nodded back from inside his room, trying to coax Anna back to sleep.

“Does this feel odd to you?” Rosalind asked as she pushed open their bedroom door.

If she meant going into their shared room right after Booker DeWitt told them he knew they shared it—forcing them to realize that their normalcy was not, in fact, so normal—than yes, it felt odd. Robert's expression must have conveyed his exasperation with the matter, because Rosalind smiled.

“One bed, huh?” Booker said, peering over Robert's shoulder and into the Lutece's room, “I guess I should have known there wouldn't be two.”

“Does it make that big a difference?” Rosalind asked, sounding as weary as Robert felt.

“Guess not,” DeWitt shrugged, “but this just reeks of dependence issues, you two should work on that. Just doesn't seem healthy.”

“Noted,” Robert said, shutting the door in Booker DeWitt's face.


	5. Corset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, okay. I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed! To be honest, without all the wonderful people taking interest in this fic (and telling me so), I would have never had the drive to type this up (I hand write everything first whoops) and edit it. 
> 
> I hope this chapter pleases and sparkles. If anything is off, don't hesitate to tell me so. It's 3k+ words, so hopefully it makes up for the lack of update.

It was for science, Robert kept reminding her. He wanted to provoke proof that DeWitt's mind still contained dormant memories of timelines no longer in existence. So there Rosalind was, adorning the blue velvet skirt and corset Elizabeth had worn during their attempts to patch the time-line.

“These things are like a cage and a leash all the same, when one's breathing is restricted so thoroughly, they won't be running very far.” Rosalind couldn't keep herself from squeaking in distress when the corset tightened further. 

“So sorry,” Robert whispered, and Rosalind could feel that the next time he pulled the garment's strings, his heart wasn't in it.

“No, no, if you don't pull it tight it won't stay on.”

“We'll see,” Robert said, continuing to lace with less violence than the garment demanded. “There, all done.”

Rosalind looked down at herself. Her breasts were spilling out of the top of the corset like two drops of water waiting to roll down a pane of glass. She turned to face Robert fully, her arms outstretched slightly because it felt odd to have them at her sides. 

Robert was frowning. 

“What?”

“That looks more painful than that other contraption you wear.”

“You've seen corsets on hundreds of women, as have I. You ought to have known that this is what you were subjecting me to. There is a reason my current brassiere comes from the twenty-fifth century.”

“I...” Robert brought his thumb to his lips, gnawing it in thought. “I suppose I never thought to have empathy for other women.”

“Splendid.”

“Well, what can I say? It makes me a better person to have a woman for my other self. Forces me to imagine what it might be like.” Rosalind's eyes must have narrowed in response, because Robert continued hurriedly with, “Perhaps force was the wrong word. I _like_ to imagine what the world is like for you. I _want_ to know.”

Rosalind nodded. “Better.”

Robert held out the small, deep blue jacket and Rosalind backed herself into it. 

“You know as well as I do that I look ridiculous.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” Robert said.

Rosalind's cheeks heated a bit at that, tongue feeling heavy in her mouth. She looked to the floor, angry at the involuntary reaction. 

_You're ridiculous_ , she wanted to say, but words refused to come to her aid, surfacing only as something between a scoff and a groan.

Robert raised his eyebrows and Rosalind tried to compose herself beneath his gaze.

“I grew sick of this dress on our fifth trial with DeWitt.”

“She did not kill Daisy until the sixth, and thus never removed her first dress until then.”

Rosalind considered that, nodding after a moment. “You're right. I hated it far prior to that, when Lady Comstock wore it.”

“It's unlike you to remember forget the details of our experiments.”

He was right again, of course, but upon reflection Rosalind knew why the details were foggy. During their fifth trial, DeWitt had attempted to sweet-talk them in exchange for information at the coin-flip. Robert then spent the rest of that trial, and several after, watching Booker DeWitt in the most peculiar fashion. Rosalind spent all of that time sneaking sideways glances at her brother, sizing up his interest in the other man.

In the end, she was unable to find any conclusive evidence about the matter. 

“Despite the identical clothing, I look nothing like the specimen.”

Robert frowned.

“Fine, _the subject._ Better?”

Robert tilted his head up so he could look down his nose at her.

“The girl,” Rosalind tried.

Silence.

Rosalind crossed her arms. “ _Elizabeth._ ” 

“Anna,” Robert corrected.

“If you want to dwell on technicality, I am positive that _Elizabeth_ is actually the proper way to refer to her in this case.”

“Yes, yes,” Robert said, ushering her out of the bedroom.

Rosalind caught one last glimpse of her speckled, pale body in the mirror before she was out the door.

Too much skin for her tastes. She had been fine in the safe confines of their bedroom, but even on the empty staircase she felt much too exposed. 

“Think of the data,” Robert sang under his breath, sensing her second thoughts.

Robert was not without imperfection. He could be too pushy when he wanted something, but she supposed she could be the same when she felt as strongly enough about an experiment. 

Still, she felt a bit used, in a way. Her gender was being taken advantage of without any regard for how she might feel. It was a valid hypothesis that the dress would trigger any dormant memories DeWitt might have, however, and she was the only logical choice for who should wear it. Though she knew if she had refused, Robert would have probably worn the darned thing himself.

Robert was only guilty of ignorance, but it was disappointing and more than a little sad to see so clearly evidence that her other self was not exempt from the faults of his gender.

Judging by the singing wafting out of the parlor, DeWitt was in there with Anna—because he was always with Anna. Rosalind had to admit it was a quality she found charming, devotion to another being was a lovely trait to have.

DeWitt's song did not falter as they entered the room; he gave them a distracted nod. 

Anna was being very vocal and grabby as he danced her around the room, her little gurgles making it seem as though she were trying to sing along.

The song was nice and vaguely familiar, some nonsense about a circle.

When DeWitt spun again, this time his his eyes caught on Rosalind, as if seeing her for the first time. The singing broke off and he stumbled mid-step.

Robert rushed forward to steady him, hands on Booker's upper arms and body protectively close to prevent Anna from falling.

Anna, sandwiched snugly between the two men, took one look up at Robert with her large, round eyes and started wailing.

The girl detested Robert but was surprisingly fine with Rosalind. They surmised that it may be a result of Robert having been tasked with delivering her to Comstock.

Even with Anna's screams, Booker did not look away from Rosalind, eyes wide and complexion pallid. 

Robert cautiously backed away from the father and daughter, as if fearful of spooking a wild animal. He exchanged a look with Rosalind.

They both knew it meant something that DeWitt had not yet turned his attention back to Anna.

Booker stopped staring when blood began to trickle from his nose.

Robert was the first to act again, plucking Anna from Booker's arms. She struggled, dead, squirming weight. Helpless, Robert pressed her to Rosalind's chest.

“Take her, please.”

Rosalind did her best to secure the girl, hating the way the baby always felt precarious in her arms.

Robert whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, turning on his heel to fuss over DeWitt.

“There, there,” she said stiffly, and despite the distaste evident in her voice, Anna's crying dwindled down to a keen.

Rosalind loved children—she really did, she had always preferred conversation with children than adults. Children exhibited an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, they were full of questions about how and why the world worked, and she took pride in her ability to answer them. When children were too young to form sentences, however, she was just as lost with them as she was with most adults.

“That's some collection of freckles you've got there,” Booker said, swatting Robert and his now bloodied handkerchief away. “What's with the getup?” 

Rosalind tried to recall Elizabeth's words. “This is all they had.”

Robert shot her a knowing smile.

“You okay?” Booker asked, more concerned than the situation called for.

Rosalind glanced to Robert for guidance, but he was too busy looking pleased with the success of their experiment.

“Why wouldn't I be okay?”

“Because Daisy--”

“Perhaps you should sit down,” Robert said, moving to dab the blood away again and coaxing DeWitt into a seat. 

“Sorry, haven't been getting much sleep,” Booker said, eying Rosalind wearily. She wasn't sure if it was because of the dress, or Anna in her arms.

“Sleep deprivation does not cause bloody noses,” Robert said, syllables practically song in his smugness.

“Must be the dry air,” Rosalind offered, and Booker took her interjection as cause to study her more openly.

“I thought we agreed that you would set a nice conservative example for my daughter.”

His voice had an edge of accusation and Rosalind was reminded again of why she had a general disdain for mankind. 

“I have courted no men and yet I wear this dress—the logical conclusion would be that a woman's clothing has no correlation to her promiscuity.”

“I know that,” Booker said, unconvincing. “But dressing like that makes men want to touch you.”

Rosalind's eyebrows shot up.

Booker's momentary confusion spluttered into realization. “Not _you_ —I meant that in general uh—“

Booker DeWitt's cheeks were attempting to rival the color of Robert's dripping handkerchief. 

Robert feigned surprise. “Come now, DeWitt. Dear Rosalind has enough gentleman callers without you adding yourself to the list.”

“Don't flatter yourselves—I wasn't—“

“Ourselves? Why would it flatter me that you find Rosalind tempting?”

Booker was beyond visibly flustered now. “You two are identical!”

“From that I can only infer that you find me equally as tempting,” Robert said.

Rosalind looked pointedly away, willing the tinge to drain from her face. It was difficult to witness her brother's foolishness in such proximity. Robert had never been one to pass up an opportunity to tease.

The current line of conversation would bear no data to further their research. She suspected that Robert was indulging himself in some way, but it was hard to say what exactly he was trying to accomplish. Back during their attempts to erase Comstock, she could see her brother itching to interfere at every turn, holding back only for the sake of an untainted experiment. 

Now however, Robert was free to prod DeWitt on a whim.

She couldn't say she had any similar desires.

“I don't want to touch anyone, it was just an—“

“Ignorant and self-insulting suggestion that men possess no self control.”

Booker sighed. “I get where you're coming from lady, honestly I do—“

“I would have went with _self-incriminating_ instead of _insulting_ ,” Robert mused as if DeWitt hadn't spoken.

“Brother, leave the poor boy alone. He misspoke, he does not enjoy seeing me like this.”

Booker made a show of rolling his eyes. “You look fine, okay? For an old lady.”

She was taken aback by the unconventional compliment. “I am not so much older than you, Booker DeWitt.”

“Doesn't matter anyhow. Years don't make you older in here,” Booker tapped his head, “experience does. And I've spent more time in the real world than either of you nuts. You two act like you've never even stepped foot in reality.” 

It was an interesting notion.

“Do you suppose he's referring to his time in the military?” Rosalind asked her brother.

“Difficult to say. I hardly think war constitutes as _the real world._ ”

“He's attempting to convey that his hardships have matured him far beyond his years.”

“War is sufficient then. Perhaps parenthood as well?”

“Death of a loved one,” Rosalind suggested.

“Addiction,”

“Murder,”

“Enough!” Booker's voice was so loud it made Anna's lip quiver. Rosalind held the baby closer and Booker's voice dropped to a quieter, more controlled tone. “Knock it off with the whole _let's talk about Booker like he's not here_ gambit.”

Rosalind shot her brother a look. “Do you suppose he thinks we do it on purpose?”

“Most likely. Are we?”

“Afraid not—“

“God damn! You two reek of rich kids who've never had to go through anything tough in their lives!” Booker sounded too much like a parent scolding a child for Rosalind's taste. “The great Luteces wouldn't have lasted _two minutes_ in my shoes.”

Rosalind supposed she was meant to take grand offense at being told by a nineteen year old that she was inferior. It did irk her a bit, that DeWitt thought so little of them despite the trouble they'd went through for his sake—well, that wasn't entirely true. Rosalind had only ever went along with everything for Robert's sake, not DeWitt's, so she had to wonder how badly the man's words might be hurting her brother.

Rosalind locked eyes with DeWitt. “Your assessment is correct, if I had experienced such loss as you have, I could not fathom myself ever being able to smile and sing as you were earlier.” 

Robert took so long to speak up that Rosalind could tell her words had surprised him. “I do not believe myself able to survive a war.”

“Let alone become a hero of one,” Rosalind added.

“Right, and poverty would have crippled our ability to practice science.”

“Thus crippling our happiness.”

Robert frowned at her. “Who would finish recording the laws of quantum physics?”

Booker put himself between them, halting Rosalind's reply.

“Just stop, alright?” Booker had the same wary look in his eye that he got when in range of president statues. “I can never tell if you're making fun of me or not. I don't think I want to know.” He beckoned for Rosalind to hand Anna over.

Rosalind obliged, but once the transfer was made, the proximity to Elizabeth's dress proved too much for DeWitt, who suddenly looked very woozy again.

Robert had enough sense to commandeer Anna and allow Rosalind to support DeWitt's weight. Booker leaned against her, head on her shoulder and breathing ragged and wet against her neck. Blood from his nose flowed in excess down her chest, soaking into the velvet jacket and pooling between her breasts. 

Being drenched in blood was hardly a desirable feeling, but DeWitt's face pressed into her shoulder sent pins and needles through her. Rosalind found her fingers in Booker's hair, massaging the man's head in firm, soothing circles the way she had done with Robert when his hemorrhaging was at its worst.

“It's alright, you'll be alright,” she said, soft words coming easily with the memories of holding Robert in the same manner. 

“What's wrong with me?” Booker groaned into her shoulder. 

“You are experiencing faintness due to blood loss—and blood loss due to a bloody nose,” Robert offered.

“Thanks Mr. Obvious,” Booker said as he pushed himself upright, hands on Rosalind's shoulders. 

Rosalind's hands slid from Booker's hair to the back of his neck, and they stood like that for a moment, in a not-quite embrace, before Booker broke away, eyes widening at the sight of her blood smeared skin.

“Do not fret, your face is in no better shape,” Rosalind said.

“That dress looks expensive, I didn't ask for your help, if you're planning to make me pay for it—“

“Nonsense. I would not dream of demanding compensation.”

Booker relaxed at that, remembering himself and inspecting the drops of blood speckling his white button-down shirt. Sighing, Booker wiped the blood from his face with a sleeve before pulling off his shirt and dabbing at the blood on Rosalind's chest. 

“You needn't—“

“It's just a shirt,” Booker said.

He was so focused and gentle about removing the blood; Rosalind knew it must have been a talent learned from caring for a child.

The bunched up shirt added an impersonal barrier between his hand and her skin, but when he pulled it away and found that a red discoloration was still prevalent on her chest, he stuck his thumb in his mouth, presumably wetting it to scrub the remaining blood clean.

Robert intercepted Booker with suspicious haste, pushing Anna into his arms.

“Best you two get cleaned up properly. I'll leave you to care for yourself, DeWitt.” Robert was at the door too quickly to maintain normalcy. “Rosalind,” he said, offering her a hand. 

Rosalind stole one last look at DeWitt, who raised an eyebrow at her, before taking her brother's hand and being led through the hall and into their lab.

They hadn't yet made it down the stairs when she stopped him. 

“What's troubling you, Robert?”

“I suppose I was jealous.”

“Of me?”

“Of DeWitt,” Robert said, tilting his head at her response. 

“Oh.”

“You assumed me jealous of you. Why?”

“I _assumed_ that you are quite fond of DeWitt.”

Robert looked her over for along moment. “You've been keeping theories from me.”

“Of course. If I were to speak with you directly about the matter, you might conceal the truth.” 

“I would do no such thing.”

“You have been.”

Robert took a deep breath. “I will not lie to you, Rosalind. Ask what you will.”

_Just how much do you like Booker DeWitt?_

_Have you ever felt like kissing me?_

_Do we never speak directly of our differences because you hate them?_

_Would you prefer me if I had been male?_

“Does it bother you when I'm in a state of undress?” 

Robert had seen her in various undergarments but never completely nude.

“I don't imagine it would.”

“Good. Now, help me remove this dress so I can burn it.”

Robert laughed, following her down the stairs to where she perched herself on a stool.

“You're avoiding the unsavory questions,” Robert said, peeling the jacket away from her skin.

“Coins seldom have the same engraving on both sides. Sometimes it's easy to forget that.”

Robert's fingers paused on the laces of her corset. “Our differences are not so bad.”

“Do you hate them?”

Their feelings towards their own differences, whether results of gender or something else entirely, were always a coin-flip between curiosity and animosity, it seemed. 

She could still remember the first time Robert had taken off his shirt to reveal a dusting of curly hair that pooled across his chest and trickled down to the hem of his pants. She had asked to touch it, trying to imagine what it would be like to have body hair like that (would it itch beneath her clothing and hurt when it was pulled?). He had let her touch it, of course, and she discovered that it did indeed hurt when pulled. 

The time a little girl had stopped her in the street to talk about _Barriers to Trans-Dimensional Travel_ , Robert had been cranky for the rest of the day. He had never published a book, and was borderline reclusive when it came to his work, so he had never garnered attention like she did when they walked through Columbia. 

“How to put it...” Robert's fingers continued their work unlacing her. “I feel something between jealousy and inadequacy.” 

“Hm.”

“It almost has a possessive quality, if I'm being perfectly honest. As though the experiences that are uniquely yours break the illusion that we are perfect matches to each other. I do hate that.” 

Robert extracted the corset and its lining from her, like a grotesque exoskeleton, and her arms folded over her bare chest for modesty's sake. 

“But mostly I hate that I do not love every bit of you at first glance,” Robert finished.

“The time with the little girl inquiring about my book—“ 

“A fond memory of you, in hindsight.” Robert's hands found her shoulders, massaging absently. “At the time though, I felt you were miles ahead of me, shining and unreachable, your time wasted on the likes of me.”

“Robert, we are one in the same, I am no better than you.”

“Yes, I am well aware. I am just as good looking, just as intelligent—maybe even a little more-so than—”

“Now you're trying my patience.”

Robert laughed and Rosalind didn't try to fight the smile from blossoming on her lips—Robert couldn't see it anyway.


End file.
